Fairly mild in tone and riffing -- if not quite ripping -- off a collection of horror classics that includes "The Shining," "Rosemary's Baby" and "Poltergeist," both the franchise's premise and its execution nevertheless remain rudimentary, with the narrative and character backstories representing more of a sketch than a fully realized vision of the supernatural world that Katie inhabits.

The resulting journey of self-discovery is not exactly profound in its revelations, but as usual with McElwee's efforts the proceedings are enlivened by his droll, witty narration, delivered in a sonorous tone.

Other than providing yet another meta-theatrical examination of the ever-blurring line between reality and artifice, Janeane From Des Moines emerges as a pointless affair.

This Chekhovian-style comedy about a group of neurotic actors endlessly kibitzing during a weekend at a country house might have some appeal for self-absorbed thespians, but "civilians," as they're derisively referred to in the film, will find little of interest here.

The Prosecution of an American President demonstrates that you can be deeply sympathetic to a film's arguments and still come away feeling unconvinced.

You almost feel sorry for Tyler Perry, stepping out of his own universe for the first time to try to expand his range and finding himself in something as thoroughly dismal as Alex Cross.

This witlessly antic sex farce about a yuppie substance abuser coping with myriad personal issues during a stint in a rehab facility pretty much fails on every level, other than providing big-screen exposure for a passel of veteran older actors.

Exhilarating, opaque, heartbreaking and completely bonkers – French auteur Leos Carax's so-called comeback film, Holy Motors, is a deliciously preposterous piece of filmmaking that appraises life and death and everything in between, reflected in a funhouse mirror.

This tale of an elite military unit assigned to rescue a war correspondent kidnapped by the Taliban is as frenetic and ultimately mind-numbing as a "Call of Duty" videogame, only without the thematic depth.

This absorbing drama provides Denzel Washington with one of his meatiest, most complex roles, and he flies with it.

Self-destructs in its quest for comic outrageousness.

Dramatically gripping while still brandishing a droll undercurrent of humor, this beautifully made film will certainly be embraced as one of the best Bonds by loyal fans worldwide and leaves you wanting the next one to turn up sooner than four years from now.

This middle portion of an intended trilogy will only play to the converted who have already seen Part I, and then only to the most gullible among them who will swallow mediocre filmmaking for the sake of ideology.

At once entirely frank and downright cuddly in the way it deals with the seldom-visited subject of the sex lives of people with disabilities, this well-acted and constructed film will, at the very least, turn the spotlight on this unusual topic.

It has little to offer a well-informed viewer.

The result is more promotional film - Springfield happens to have recently released both a new album and an autobiography - than intriguing sociology, although the rabidly intense middle-aged female fans on display are probably deserving of psychological study.

Clearly intent on inspiring viewers, the informational film makes a fine sum-up for those who've found the last decade's geopolitics too much to keep track of, but isn't promising in commercial terms.

Not quite able to make up its mind whether it's a parody or homage, this tired exercise wastes both its gorgeous visuals and a first-rate cast.

Smiley, is unfortunately less scary than, say, the prospect of your significant other accidentally discovering your search engine history.

Least Among Saints has the strained feel of a basic cable television movie, with modest production values to match.

The film offers a privileged perspective on crucial moments in Johnny Cash's career, and serious fans will likely warm to it on the small screen.

An engrossing two-hander combining the smart-talk microcosm of "My Dinner With Andre" and the sexual dynamics of a Philip Roth novel, David Trueba's Madrid, 1987 is more universal than its title suggests and holds a strong art house appeal.

Alternates languidly between wistful nostalgia and a more clear-eyed assessment of its protagonist's choices.

Gayby doesn't break a lot of new ground in the rom-com or parenthood fields, but its agreeable balance of humor and sentiment makes it worth adopting.

Few will fail to be moved by this portrait of selflessness in the face of near insurmountable odds.

Occasionally stupid (stretching even fright-flick conventions) but scary nonetheless, the picture should please horror fans.

The bottom line: The impact of this forceful indictment of our healthcare system is lessened by the sheer ubiquity of similarly-themed documentaries.

The picture is fresh and frightening, a strong arthouse contender certain to leave audiences talking.